


A Good Woman

by herequeerandreadytofight



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: F/M, Marriage, Period-Typical Homophobia, Romance, how they meet, the background story no one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-08 06:25:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15924719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herequeerandreadytofight/pseuds/herequeerandreadytofight
Summary: How did a nice Christian girl end up married to a member of the Peaky Blinders?





	1. He's not my boy

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to ashling for her editing/support/commentary <3 Also I reimagined Linda a little, in the show she's a Quaker, but for plot reasons I changed her to generic Protestant fundamentalist as imagined by a leftist Catholic so if I fucked up please let me know

They’d met doing charity work, at least, that was what she told people. It wasn’t a full lie, not really, not since she had been doing charity work at the time. It was quite bold, allowing unmarried women to approach strange men in the street, but considering most of the time the men were dead to the world from drink, or too starved to pursue anyone in a skirt, it usually turned out alright. Especially since the vicar looked on with an eagle eye. He’d missed it, though, when as she was bent over delivering a blanket, the rum soaked bundle of man beside her shot a hand out and grabbed her wrist. 

“Yer an angel. An angel just for me.” 

She blinked, stunned, before she could hear the bell signaling that the girls must reconvene. Fortunately he dropped his hand just as suddenly, and she hurried back to the group of church girls in sensible heels, wondering if they’d notice the blush stained against her cheeks. Later, in the bath, her fingers wandered down past her stomach as she tried to recall the exact shade of blue the stranger’s eyes were. The next morning, to forget about this, she finally took up Mrs. Fieldingham’s increasingly aggressive offers for Linda to meet her nephew, which was where it all began. 

She cursed those fingers, and the guilt they’d caused, as she sat primly on a bus seat, listening to Anthony drone on about Kant. She peeked at her watch counting off the fifteenth minute of this particular discussion, one which had been prefaced by his ideas about politics and the immense injustice of the current system, in that the system had not been designed to make him and only him very wealthy. She’d allowed herself to drift into a pleasant fantasy where she was alone by the sea with a very big dog and that book she’d been meaning to buy, when she’d jolted in her seat. 

“End of the line, Miss, Mister.” 

“Oh gracious. I completely lost track of time. But really, when you consider it, is it just for human beings to be confined by our watches? Slaves to the clock?” 

“Mister. End of the line. My Missus is waiting for me and she made her stew.”

“Well-” 

“I love her stew.” said the bus driver in a tone that brooked no argument, and she was hustled out into the cold and into the kind of scene that made her tighten her grip on her purse. 

“Well. I suppose we can walk.” He tried to take her arm but promptly forgot it as he began to gesticulate to describe what he called the fitness of the Anglo Saxon race. She tried to feel the texture of sand against her skin and the smell of salt air, when he stopped to survey a pub. 

“How about it, Miss Evans? A quick drink to warm us up?” She should have disagreed- it was improper to drink on an outing without a chaperone- but it was the kind of cold that nestled against you, and she’d like to get a drink out of the excursion at least. He held open the door, and the activity nearly ceased. Rough looking men stared openly at her, hair illuminated by an oil lamp behind her. Anthony stood close, but she doubted his gawky frame could take more than a slap. 

He set her up at a table and returned with a pint and a glass of wine that could generously be described as green, and she traced the scratches in the table as he droned on. The front door to the pub banged open and a stream of men in the same hat walked in, whooping. 

“Send a bottle back, Harry. We’re celebrating tonight!” A man with a toothpick in his mouth leered at her after he ordered, and elbowed a tall man in the side. He turned and- oh. It was him. Cleaned up, to be sure, but the mustache, the eyes, it was him. He pushed the other man away and strode over. Anthony barely paused for breath, unaware of the mustached man looming over him, until he grasped his shoulder and said “Fuck off.” Anthony jumped. Linda clutched her purse tighter. He leaned in until his nose was a hair away from hers. He still smelled of rum, but also aftershave and something indescribable and manly. Anthony smelled like his aunt’s house: cat urine and lavender. 

“I remember you.” Definitely a Brummie boy. 

“Sir, I-” The man took out a bundle of money that looked like at least twenty pounds. 

“Go get some cigarettes.” He hesitated until the grip on his shoulder tightened enough for him to forget about protecting her virtue and he scrambled out of the chair. The man plopped into Anthony’s chair, still staring intently into Linda’s eyes. She kept her hands pressed tightly against her lap, partly protective, partly to prevent herself from revealing how they trembled. 

“Are you real?” That was enough for her to snap her eyes to meet his. 

“What else would I be?”  
He smiled, crookedly. “An angel?” 

“Just me, I’m afraid. Linda Evans.” 

“Are you? Afraid?” 

She caught him with a look. “If you were a woman and you were in a strange pub in Small Heath and your companion just left, how would you feel?” 

That got a whole chortle. “If I were a woman I’d never leave my fucking house, never mind tend to drunks on the street. I’m Arthur.” 

He stood. “Come on then. I don’t wanna scare ya.” She stared blankly at his extended hand. He wiggled his fingers. “I’ll give you a lift home. I think your boy scarpered.” 

“He’s not my boy.” she muttered, crossly. 

“Well?” 

“Arthur?” The shorter one of the group stood at a door to the back room. His cold blue eyes assessed her in a way that felt like a threat. “You coming?” 

He didn’t turn around. “Not tonight, Tom.” 

Tom’s eyes lingered on her face again, as if memorizing it before turning back to the raucous din of the room behind him.

Maybe because she’d always been secretly contrary, or maybe it was because she’d want to see what he’d do, but she remained in her seat. 

“Well, I think you owe me a drink at least.” 

His grin climbed into his mustache. “Do I?” 

She gestured at the seat across from her. “You scared away Anthony before I could finish my drink.” 

“Well then.” The greenish wine was whisked away, maybe to disinfect something, and Arthur hopped the bar and rummaged around. The bartender didn’t even turn around. 

“I know she keeps it here somewhere.” He muttered, before his hand came back with a bottle of tonic water and a bottle of gin. “There you fuckers are.” He sloshed the two together in a cleanish looking cup and brought it over with a wide smile.  
“My little sister loves these.”  
Linda took a sip. It was more or less straight gin, but in for a penny out for a pound. 

“How old is she?” 

Arthur’s face scrunched slightly as he calculated. “Twenty four in June.” 

“Well thanks to her, I don’t have to drink a pint, so cheers to sisters.” 

They kept toasting, to brothers- his three, her one- and parents and aunts and family pets, so by the time he bundled her into the car, shooing his youngest brother and a gaggle of appreciative nine year olds out, she had to lean against him to walk. She pointed her way around darkened streets that whirled by until she was at her front door, her parents’ light still on. 

She straightened her coat then leaned over and pecked him, right where his lips and cheek met. 

“Thank you, for the lift.” And she felt his eyes on her as she walked to the door.


	2. Silver Lighter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So we meet again! Aka Arthur gets serious about sobriety

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first DATE

She avoided her mother’s prying questions over toast the next morning, and on the tram into work, slipped a red lipstick she’d stolen from a Macy’s out of her purse and onto her mouth. She spent the day at the parish office as jittery as if she’d consumed only tea and cigarettes, rather than the wilted cucumber sandwich her mother had packed. The vicar had barely glanced at her as he handed in his most recent sermon to be filed- despite all evidence to the contrary, he believed he was a great thinker- but Mrs. Grundle had clucked her tongue very loudly when Linda had walked through the door. Finally, blessedly, it was the end of the day, and she’d put her loose black sweater on and prepared to meet the grey sleet. She waved goodbye to Mrs. Grundle, who didn’t look up from her knitting but murmured “And women should adorn themselves modestly and appropriately and sensibly in seemly apparel, not with elaborate hair arrangement or gold or pearls or expensive clothing.” She was still rolling her eyes when she ducked into an alleyway to light a cigarette, which she nearly choked on when she saw who turned the corner. 

“What are you doing here?” 

He blinked. “Why are you smoking behind a dustbin?” 

“My mother thinks smoking is a sin.” 

“I have a meeting.” 

“With the vicar?” 

He looked down, sheepish. “There’s a temperance society, meets here sometimes. Thought I’d look in.” 

She looked at him appraisingly. “So you didn’t know I worked at the parish office, then.” 

“I may have..made some inquiries. I am going to the meeting, though.” 

Her smile crept up. “Don’t let me keep you.” 

“Your cigarette’s gone out.” He leant in, close enough to kiss, to block the wind, and with a dented silver lighter, had her cigarette reignited. 

“Thank you.” She took a drag, but kept eye contact. He nearly squirmed. 

“Lunch!” He blurted. “Lunchtime. Can I take you to lunch?” 

“I would enjoy that.” She hoped she could blame any flush on the cold. He tucked his lighter into the hand not holding a cigarette. 

“In case it goes out again.” She clutched it tighter. 

“I’ll give it back at lunchtime, then.” 

“Right.” He nearly tripped over his feet, and when he reached the door of the office, looked back. “I’ll see you, I mean, I hope to enjoy the presence of your company soon, Miss Phillips.” Even the smelly man who nearly cuffed her in the ear with his newspaper didn’t dim the smile on her face as she scrubbed off her lipstick on the tram ride home. 

“Ada.” 

“Hmm?” Ada didn’t look up from her magazine as Arthur counted bottles behind the bar. Behind her, Karl darted from table to table. 

“You know those posh birds?” 

Ada tsked. “The ones who could feed a family of four with what they spend on fucking corsets?” 

Arthur’s eyebrows creased. “No, the fucking educated ones. With manners and shit.” He straightened and propped his elbows on the bar. Ada turned the page. 

“What about them, then?” 

“How do you, you know, talk to them?” 

Ada scoffed. “What posh birds are you talking to?” 

Arthur scratched at his neck. “You know, just someone.” 

Ada’s eyes snapped up. “Someone who?” 

Arthur grimaced. “Just someone nice.” 

Ada’s grin became positively wicked. “Someone you can’t just take into an alley somewhere to shag?” 

“Think of the fucking kid, Ada.” 

She dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “He can’t understand that yet. Anyone I know?” 

“No, she’s..nice. Religious type.” 

“Opiate of the masses, like. You don’t talk to them, that’s my answer.” 

Just as she returned to her article, and Arthur to his inventory, he muttered, “We’re getting lunch tomorrow.” This time, the magazine thudded against the counter. 

“Wash up, bring flowers, comb your fucking hair, and say please and thank you more than you think you should.” Karl tripped and started to wail, and before she went to pick him up, Ada turned once more. “And no fucking snow, Arthur.” 

“M trying to stop.” He mumbled in Ada’s wake, Karl’s cries trailing behind her as the door swung shut. 

He did what Ada said, and spent the minutes counting down to the noon factory whistle pacing around the block with a bundle of daisies tucked behind his back. John had nearly pissed himself with laughter at the sight of him in a suit and bowtie, till Polly clocked him on the head with her morning paper. The shrill sound of the whistle made him jump, and she was there, blonde and prim and smiling just for him. He took her to a restaurant that was probably too posh for him, but the five pounds slipped to the maitre de meant they were fawned over. 

“I’ve never been to such a lovely restaurant for lunch. Thank you.” Arthur looked up from squinting at the menu- somehow the pidgin French picked up in the trenches didn’t clarify what moules were- to see Linda adjusting her dress self consciously. 

“You’re the loveliest thing in the restaurant.” He could see her blush disappear into her high collar, and he wondered how low it went.

He got boeuf something and she got soup and it was a fucking testament to the value of money that the waiter didn’t react to his butchered pronunciation. 

“And what is it you do, Mr- Oh, gosh. I don’t even know your last name.” 

“It’s Shelby.” Not even a blink. Oh, she was one of the good ones. 

“Mr. Shelby.” 

“I own a club. In London.” 

“Goodness! How cosmopolitan!” 

“It’s..something, I’ll tell you that. A different world from Small Heath.” Arthur resisted the urge to sniff. 

“I can imagine.” Linda fidgeted with a petal. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

“Of course.” 

“Have you ever said fuck?” She yanked the petal right out in surprise. 

“I don’t believe I ever have.” 

“You don’t have to, I just wondered.” 

Linda took a breath. “I’ll do it if I can ask you a question.” 

Arthur leaned back to allow the waiter to place their dishes in front of them. “I’ll answer anything you like, darling.” 

“Are you serious about sobriety, or were you just going to see me?” 

His eyes, blue and sad, met hers. “I am serious. But there are other meetings much closer to my home.” 

She smiled and lifted her spoon. “Fuck, this soup is hot.” 

Arthur’s laugh rang out through the dining room. 

He walked her back to work, a half hour late and slightly tipsy on the champagne he’d insisted on her drinking for him. 

“I have another meeting on Friday afternoon, if you can slip away.” 

She cocked her head. “I have a service, then straight home. But maybe I could leave after my parents are asleep?”

His eyebrows raised. “Parents?” 

“Better parents than a husband.” 

“I’d like to meet them.” 

She let out a noise that could charitably be called a guffaw. “Why?” 

He blushed. “To get their permission. For courting.” 

“We’ll see.” Mrs. Grundle tapped on the window with her knitting needles. “I really, really have to go. But thank you for a lovely lunch.” She squeezed his hand then tucked the daisies under her coat. 

“Thank you for your patience, Mrs. Grundle. I was ministering to a soul in need.” She harrumphed but couldn’t exactly complain. Sometimes Linda was certain the old woman sent out messages in her knitting like a more righteous Madame DeFarge, but rather than revolutionary tracts they were passive-aggressive Bible verses. 

That night, she did what she hadn’t done since she was a child, and kneeled besides her bed to pray. She asked for her parents’ hearts to be opened, and for Mrs. Grundle to believe her, and that Mrs. Brown’s baby recover, poor thing. Mostly she prayed that Arthur belonged to a good upstanding parish, or at least, one where her parents didn’t know anyone.


	3. I think that could have gone better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alternate title: The Class System (Ada was right)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, I owe everything to ashling and her DANK ASS MOOD BOARD http://hethrewmyheartinthecut.tumblr.com/post/177893096762/are-you-real-that-was-enough-for-her-to-snap

After a few hushed phone calls where she leapt upon the ringer at the first ring, she’d caved into Arthur’s insisting he ‘do it properly’ and meet her parents. “None of this sneaking around. You deserve more than that.”   
But by the time he was expected to arrive, her fingernails were bitten to the quick, and her hands shook as she buttoned up the hideous dress her mother had gotten her for last Christmas. He was there five minutes early, flowers for her mother and- 

“You have to throw that away.” She hissed. 

“It’s good whiskey!” 

“He’s a member of the temperance society. Quick, throw it in the bush.” 

He flung it into the nearest hedge a millisecond before her father came to the door. 

“Welcome in, Mr. Shelby.” 

They sat in the parlor, which hadn’t changed since her grandmother redecorated in 1888. Arthur looked even harder against the overstuffed couch and the floral couch, but he spoke at length about the temperance society’s positive impact on his life and his aunt’s devout nature. It was going surprisingly well until- 

“And what parish does your family belong to, in Birmingham?” 

Linda closed her eyes and thought Fuck.

“Uh, Saint Margarets. Ma’am.” 

“Saint? Are you a Catholic?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Her father leaned away. “Irish?” 

“On my mother’s side, yes.” 

“And your father’s?” 

Arthur took a long sip of tea before saying “Gypsy. But I’ve lived in Birmingham all my life.” 

“Which neighborhood? We have friends near Highgate.” Her mother enquired brightly, as if she wasn’t horrified at the thought of a Catholic gypsy in her parlor. 

Linda started to wish desperately for a cigarette. “He’s from Small Heath, Mother.” 

Mother’s fingers wrapped around her pearls, as if he’d snatch them right from her neck. “I see.” There was the creak of a floorboard upstairs and her parents shared a quick look and both stood. 

“Well then. I believe we have another obligation at the parish, so if you’ll excuse us, I’ll walk you to the door.” 

“No need, Father, I can do it.” Her father put a heavy hand on her shoulder. 

“Why don’t you help Mother clear the tea things.” It was a statement phrased as a question. But as Arthur stood and her father walked to the door, she mouthed ‘back door’ until a look of comprehension dawned on Arthur’s face. 

“I’ll do the washing up, Mother.” She dumped the china on the counter with a clatter, then slipped out into the garden.

“I think that could have gone better.” Arthur said as he scratched at the shaved sides of his head. “I’ve never met a bird’s parents before but your Dad almost shoved me through the door.” 

She sighed. “It wasn’t exactly perfect.” 

He touched her hand, lightly. She had to suppress a shiver. “I am sorry. Tell me what I can do, to make them like me.” 

She bit her lip. “Convert and get a different last name and a different family.” 

Arthur made a face. “Sometimes I do wish I had a different family.” 

It was a subject he’d danced around, family, though he’d uneasily mentioned that some of the wealth wasn’t exactly on the up and up. It wasn’t as though she didn’t have her own skeletons in the cupboard. Or rather, the attic bedroom. Something mad seized her then, and she leaned in for a kiss. A proper one, not one in the general vicinity of his mouth, and one that deepened. During these few minutes, Linda discovered something that completely shifted her entire understanding of the world. She liked it and she wanted more. Arthur’s hands wrapped around her waist were warm and she wished they were touching skin instead of dull muslin. A sound too close for comfort made her break away, but he continued to kiss down her neck. 

“Wait” she whispered and they stayed clutching one another until there was a significant thud from upstairs and the sound of two pairs of feet racing up the stairway. 

Linda sighed. “I have to go.” After a few more minutes, finally, she disentangled herself. “Really, before my parents come back.” 

His eyes were darker than she’d ever seen them, and hungry in a way that made her feel dangerous. “When can I see you again?” 

“Telephone me tonight. Ten o'clock.” And she left him, with a final frantic kiss that left her lips tingling.


	4. Teddy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gotta make this story at least a little gay

She’d just submerged her hands into the dishwater when her mother reappeared. “I’ll finish up, Linda. Can you please look in on Edward?” 

Nodding quietly, she slipped up the stairs, pretending not to hear her mother’s quiet tears. She tapped lightly on the door before entering to see her brother silhouetted against the faint sunlight poking through the Birmingham grey. 

“Hullo, Teddy.” He didn’t turn, so she approached and sat next to him on the narrow bachelor’s bed. She’d wondered whether he’d ever get to sprawl in a double bed, with or without someone next to him. She could feel him tense, then slowly relax as she didn’t make a move to speak or touch him, and they watched the sun start to sink together. Finally, when their shadows stretched across the room, he sighed long and low. 

“Got another letter today.” 

Linda spotted a lingering white feather Mother must have missed in the corner of the room, and chose to stay silent, but hugged him close to her. She’d never understand, with Armistice nearly three years into effect and the muck of the battlefront slowly turning into fields again, why people wouldn’t let the war die. Selfishly, she also wondered how she could explain Teddy to Arthur.

“Is Mother alright?” He mumbled into his lap.

“She is. She was just..tired today.” He looked up and crooked an eyebrow. 

“Does that have anything to do with the man who came in through the front door and left through the back?” 

Linda squeaked and swatted him. “You saw that?” 

“Oh yes. He’s much more handsome than that Anthony. I’d love to have him sit for me.” 

Linda let a small smile play across her face. “He is very handsome.” 

“Do I need to threaten him? Make sure he doesn’t impugn your honor?” 

“You read too many romances.” 

He bumped her shoulder with his. “Maybe so. Speaking of, I have some more to return to the library if you’re going later.” 

She stood. “I will. I’ve got to help Mother make supper, but I’ll bring some more tomorrow?” 

He nodded. “Come up later tonight. I want to finish your portrait soon.” 

Later, back lit by candles Teddy insisted on because they added a ‘gothic touch’, she let her mind wander back to Arthur. She hadn’t felt this excited since sneaking out to see The Sheik. Her heart still fluttered when she thought about Rudolph Valentino, naked to the waist, but now it was blended with the flesh and blood reality of Arthur’s warm hands around her. Teddy frowned. 

“Stop blushing, I’m trying to do your cheek.” 

“Sorry, sorry.” Desperately trying to think of something else, and to keep her mouth as still as possible, she asked “How do you do it, up here?” Behind the easel, she heard a sigh. 

“Painting, mostly. Reading. Talking to my irritating younger sister. The window helps.” She stayed quiet while he muttered something about the coloring under his breath. “It’s easier, in some ways. Not having to be out in the world. I worry about you.” 

“Me? I worry about you.” 

He chuckled. “Maybe that’s all family is, worrying about each other.” They sat in silence for a moment, letting that thought roll around their heads. 

“Do you miss him?” 

In the candlelight, he looked older than he ever had. “Every day.” If this were the gothic novel Teddy were trying to emulate, he’d have some kind of dramatic scar that would throb as he said that, but the mob had left him more or less untouched. Physically, at least. 

“He’d probably have inherited the shop this year. His dad’s nearly sixty-five.” 

“Oh he would have loved that. Given penny candy to all the kids who came in.” 

Teddy cracked a smile. “He wouldn’t turn a profit. Anyone who came in with a sad story would have left with all the groceries they could carry.” 

“Well I should hope so. He was a Communist, after all.” 

Teddy added a few more brush strokes. “Also, it’s nearly ten. You should go sit near the phone.” 

Linda gave him a look. 

“The chimney runs right through my room. I can hear everything that happens in the parlor. Is he really a Catholic?” 

“Are you finished?”


	5. I love you more than life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's HAPPENING

There were phone calls, yes, and picnics, the nickelodeon, and country drives with long talks about God and a bemused Teddy ten feet away. He’d be at church every Sunday, and respectfully shake her father’s hand. And after the Thursday night meeting, he’d walk her to the tram and peck her hand. On the other hand, there were nightly frantic hours in the car that felt too short where they would kiss until the windows steamed up, her sitting astride him like he was a horse. Finally, one day, it came to a head. She’d just bent down to catch his lips with hers when he groaned and lifted her off of him by the waist. 

“What? What is it?” 

“Nothing it’s alright. I’m just- I’m not-” Glancing down, she saw the problem. 

“Oh, I see.” She blinked. “Does it hurt?” 

He let out a breathless chuckle. “Not at the moment.” 

“Should I do something?” He hesitated, and she took the moment to kiss his neck where she could see his pulse fluttering. 

“No, no, Linda.”   
She sat back on the seat next to him. “I know. It’s a sin. We should stop.” 

“Or we could get married.” 

“What?” 

A sheepish smile spread across his face. “Not a sin. If you’re married.” 

“Well-” 

“I love you, Linda. I truly do, not just because of what we’re doing. You’re my fucking angel and you’ve saved me more times than I can count.” They had talked, about the man that had given Arthur his name and the violence he’d seen. The violence he’d done. There were times she’d wished she could scream at Thomas Shelby, usually after Arthur’s voice shook at the description of blood on his hands. She kissed his hands now, and held them. 

“I love you, too, Arthur Shelby.” 

After that conversation, it was hardly a surprise when, on a bitterly cold January night, he drove to the usual spot around the corner, and instead of getting out to open the door, she found him kneeling in the snow. 

“Linda Evans. I love you more than life, will you marry me? And it’s bloody cold, so don’t think too long.” 

She knocked him into the slush in her excitement.


	6. Racing Days and Wedding Days Only

In her youth, her much envisioned wedding looked like a cross between the royal wedding and Cinderella come to life. Her father would escort her down the aisle of a church packed full with well wishers, her mother would have given her the pearl earrings that so fascinated her when she was younger, and there would be cake. Of course, the crowded church had more or less disappeared as an option after Teddy had been caught with Franz, but it stung that her parents refused to attend- though Teddy was a lovely escort. It was in a drab room, though she could see that Arthur’s sister had made an effort with the decorations. Arthur’d given her a filthy wad of pound notes and she’d bought herself the nicest dress she’d ever owned, with a pearly silk slip that was sticking to her skin with perspiration. She’d conceded to a light pink lipstick, but her hair was pulled back as tightly as ever and she could feel her pulse pounding in her temples as she clutched her bouquet of daisies. The preacher looked fairly serious about the whole thing at least, although his son, sitting in the back row, was passing a flask in a way she was sure he thought discreet. Ada sat next to her aunt, who had looked Linda up and down cooly without saying a word before pressing a hand to her belly, then withdrawing it without a word. Ada, on the other hand, had flung her arms around Linda before introducing her son to ‘your new Auntie Linda’. She waved now. Arthur and his brothers were still missing, although the littlest one was perched next to the Aunt looking bored and fidgeting with a slingshot. The Aunt- Polly seemed like a dangerously incongruous name for the poised but vicious looking woman with rosary beads wound around her fingers- slapped it out of his hands and in a whisper that carried said “Not in a fucking church.”

“But Aunt Pol, it’s not a church.” 

From the back of the room, Linda’s cheeks burned. Polly bent her head towards Ada for a moment, handed over the slingshot, then stood and disappeared into a corridor. 

In another room, John handed over a flask to Arthur, who gratefully swallowed it. Tommy clasped the back of his neck. 

“Look at me. You’ll be alright, eh? She’s a good woman.” 

“Too good for someone like me.” 

John rolled his eyes. “Stop whinging. She’s marrying you, so get out there.” Polly stepped into the room. 

“Arthur. Your not pregnant bride is waiting for you, as is half of Small Heath.” She leaned in. “And you reek of whiskey. Saints preserve us.” 

John turned to Polly. “She’s really not pregnant?” Polly made a face that somehow exactly conveyed that she was shocked too, but wasn’t going to say anything now. 

“Course she’s not pregnant. It’s a sin to engage in premartal- premartial- to fuck before your wedding.” 

Polly blinked. “Maybe she is a good influence after all.” She pointed to Tommy. “Sober him up, please. I’ll tell her that you’ll be right out. Don’t make me into a liar, Arthur.” Arthur moaned. 

“Here, here, here. Easy, eh?” Tommy pulled a vial out of his coat. “Have some. Racing days and wedding days only.” Arthur reached out a trembling hand, then snorted in one mechanical motion. 

Finally, he was there, and the aging pianoforte creaked out a processional and she and Teddy stepped down the aisle. He was trembling almost as much as her, poor lamb. It had been years since he’d been in a room with this many people. She squeezed his arm tightly. The dressmaker had insisted on high heeled shoes, and she felt far too close to collapsing into a pew for her comfort. Then, she was at the altar, staring into the eyes of the man she was to love forever, at the expense of her family, her inheritance, what little social life she’d cobbled together since they’d found Franz and Teddy intertwined under an oak tree. She thought it was worth it. She knew it was worth it. He kept her hands clasped in hers until it was time for a ritual she thought a bit pagan. Tommy- or was it John? Finn was the little one, and there was a Michael in there too- stepped forward with a knife, and she shut her eyes as he sliced across her palm. Arthur didn’t even grimace, and clutched her bleeding hand tight to his. 

“You may now kiss the bride.” And there it was.


	7. At my fucking wedding?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we finally get all these other ships in the tags!!

The reception was a confusing blur of punch and cake and a photograph. She couldn’t stop smiling, or let go of Arthur’s hand, as a series of increasingly rough looking men clapped him on the back and toasted to their health. Ada’d convinced her to try some more champagne- ‘it’s your wedding day, after all’- and her head was spinning. She’d always thought that was a figure of speech, but now she knew it to be all too true. Teddy weaved in and out, checking in on her and talking to Arthur with forced joviality about a football match, before Ada elbowed her way in with a tract in her hand. 

“Jesus, Ada, at my fucking wedding?” 

“Don’t blaspheme.” Linda muttered half heartedly. For all his newfound church going, Arthur still lapsed. 

“I’m just asking. I’m not bothering Linda.” She turned, pointedly, to Teddy. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” 

“I’m Edward. Brother of the bride.” He extended a hand, which Ada shook energetically. “And may I have your name?” 

“Ada Thorne, sister of the groom. Are you familiar with the plight of the working people?” She proudly stuck out her tract, and Teddy moved to take it when she paused. 

“Edward Evans?” 

“Yes?” 

“Did you know a Franz Schmidt, by chance?” 

A vein in Teddy’s tightly clenched jaw pulsed. “I did.” Ada’s eyebrows jumped, before smoothing back down into an empathetic frown. 

“I’m very sorry for your loss. I helped collect a fund for his parents after the Party heard what happened.” 

Arthur looked back from the conversation he was having with a grizzled older man. “Just a minute, Charlie. What happened?” 

“It’s quite alright, Arthur. Let’s have another glass, hm?” Before he could act on his suspicious expression, or Ada could uncover another uncomfortable subject, the brother with the constant smirk on his face stood and clanked a spoon against his glass of whiskey. 

“Alright, alright. Sit down, Johnny. As some of you know, I didn’t get the luxury of a best man at my wedding- thanks for that, Tommy- so I’m not sure how this speech should go. But, what I will say, is that Arthur has been a hell of a lot nicer since Linda got her hands on him.” He paused as everyone chortled at that. “My brother used to be able to finish half a bottle of whiskey before a fight. Now he says the Our Father. But I don’t mind, since he still manages to fucking win. Anyway, to Linda, to Arthur, and to me finishing this speech so I can take my wife to the back room before the kids notice we’re gone.” Everyone raised a glass and cheered as Arthur lightly pecked her. 

“Come on Arthur, you can do better than that!” He responded by dipping her into a kiss so thorough that she was almost glad her parents weren’t here. Behind her, Tommy turned to Teddy, who had never looked so profoundly uncomfortable. 

“And what do you do, Mr. Evans?” 

“A painter. Of pictures, not houses, although I suppose it’s the same thought, isn’t it?” 

Tommy nodded politely. “I suppose so. Drink?” 

After Linda had untangled herself, she walked by the two of them in deep conversation, several empty glasses at Teddy’s elbow. 

“And I suppose one of my biggest influences is Monet. I would love to go to Paris and see his works in person. Have you ever been to France, Mr. Shelby?” 

Tommy, in the middle of lighting a cigarette, coughed. “Yes, but I’m afraid I didn’t make it to the Louvre, since I was in the middle of a trench at the time. Did you serve?” 

Teddy stared down at his hands. “I didn’t.”

Tommy leaned back in his chair. “I see.” 

“Not that I’m some kind of militant pacifist. Bit of a contradiction, that. Militant pacifist.” 

A small smile crossed Tommy’s face. “I didn’t say you were. I’m familiar, with the situation.” 

Teddy froze. “The situation.” 

“I was involved with the Party, once. I’d heard about it.” 

Teddy straightened and pulled himself up and away from his hunched position over the small table. “Right.” Tommy reached over and clasped his wrist, light enough that Teddy could break away if he wanted. He didn’t. 

“Thomas!” Lizzie Stark stood, tall and imperious, over the two of them. Tommy sighed, long and low, and let go of Teddy’s wrist. “Arthur needs you.” 

“Right now?” 

“Right now.” She gave a half smile of acknowledgement to Teddy that was perfunctory at best, then fixed her eyes on Tommy. Teddy simultaneously hated her for breaking up the first bit of fun he’d had since, well, and wanted to paint her. Tommy brushed his fingers against Teddy’s open palm before he stood and began to walk away with Lizzie. 

“He’s back here.” Tommy opened the door to find Arthur standing with Linda perched on a table, enveloping him in her voluminous white gown as they kissed. 

“Tommy, what the fuck?” 

“Sorry! Sorry, Arthur. Sorry Mrs. Shelby.” 

Linda smiled, and it was so sweet and pure Arthur leant back down and kissed her again. Tommy cleared his throat. “So I assume you don’t need me for anything.” 

Arthur kicked the door shut into his face.

Walking back into the reception hall, he saw Lizzie smiling brightly at Teddy. 

“Lizzie, may I speak with you?” 

“Just a moment. Please, continue with your charming comment on Impressionism, Mr. Phelps.” Tommy wrapped his hand around Lizzie’s upper arm. 

“Now.” She made an enragingly lovely moue at Teddy, who looked delighted. He kept his hand on her arm as he steered her to an empty hallway. 

“Why are you playing games with me, hmm?”

She looked up at him, stubborn as anything, even with her back against the wall. “If I can’t fuck who I want, neither can you.” By the time his hand was sliding up her skirt, she had already unbuttoned his shirt. 

Arthur squinted. “Where’s Tommy?” 

Linda squeezed his hand. “I don’t see him, love, I’m sorry.” Arthur scanned the crowd for another moment, but eventually shrugged. 

“Right then. You ready?” She nodded, pretty as any Gibson girl with her hair curling around her temples from the dancing and pinked cheeks. He could feel her pulse pounding through her wrists. He ducked out the door, with her trailing behind, and flinched at the onslaught of rice. Finn seemed to take particular joy in flinging it at Arthur’s eyes. Polly drew him in for a hug and he walked through a gauntlet of back slapping from his brothers and seemingly every distant relative of Johnny Dogs before reaching the motor car and pulling off into the distance. 

It was rougher than she’d expected, but better, too. This was it. She had married a gangster, who was currently thrusting into her with his hand wrapped gently around her neck. He moaned and buried his face in her neck. 

“Angel. My angel.” There was a wet feeling, then something sticky. She assumed that meant he was done. He sighed, then held her tight. She relished in the feeling for a few minutes before slowly and deliberately pushing back against him. He stiffened, before pulling her in again. This time, it was her hand wrapped round his neck.


	8. Charity Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we're at the end!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's all caught up to when Linda arrives in the series :,( thank you everyone and Ashling in particular for your lovely comments !! they're a joy to read

Months later, she was back in the motor car, hair pulled back just as tight, but a new lace slip she couldn’t wait for Arthur to discover underneath. Arthur’s hand rested gently on her thigh, quietly possessive. The mansion was huge, and the ceremony was everything hers was supposed to be-though, of course, she’d worn white. However, when she looked into Tommy Shelby’s eyes, cold even on his wedding day, she squeezed Arthur’s hand. This new life was a strange one, in ways she’d never imagined. She hadn’t thought about Tommy pounding on the door at 1:30 in the morning, waking up to cold sheets, Esme and Lizzie’s frank discussions about cock size and the looks on their faces when she’d confessed that she’d only ever seen Arthur’s, and the whiff of perfume that was not her own, always too faint for her to make accusations. But Teddy was set up in an anonymous London flat, happily painting. On the telephone, he’d confessed that he’d met someone, another Communist. She could smoke in the garden, and turn the Victrola up and dance across empty rooms while Arthur was gone. In the shop, men tipped their hats instead of sneering about poofters. And she loved him, well and truly. 

She sat at the table, next to John and Esme, and across from a well-meaning distant aunt of Grace’s. In an attempt to ignore John’s increasingly vulgar jokes, and Esme’s steady consumption of whiskey, she leaned in. 

“And how did you and your husband meet, Mrs. Shelby?” The candlelight glinted off her spectacles, and Linda could feel her reaching for a scrap of respectability. 

Linda smiled, all teeth. “Charity work.”


End file.
